


Dalmore 62

by Ace_The_Disgrace



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: "fuck" is quackity's filler word and it's mine too, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, First Dates, First Kiss, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29654673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ace_The_Disgrace/pseuds/Ace_The_Disgrace
Summary: A bottle of whiskey that cost a quarter-million. A golden band worn on the wrong hand. A marriage that didn't last a day.Schlatt didn't have the decency to leave behind any of it.The only thing he left behind were bruises, and Quackity hoped to God they'd never fade away.(This was supposed to be a oneshot that either developed or degraded into a 41-page document worked on exhaustively and exclusively between the hours of 11:00 pm to 5:00 am during my finals month.)
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity/Jschlatt, Alexis | Quackity/Karl Jacobs/Sapnap
Comments: 10
Kudos: 132





	1. The Date

Schlatt debates opening his sophisticated, beloved, and very _very_ expensive Dalmore 62 over a shitty, last-minute date.

Alcohol was usually a formality between his nerves and the rest of his body, a pacification of mercilessly firing nodes, threatening to surface as stammers and lost composure at the slightest hint of anxiety. 

—But what is there for him to be anxious about? His date isn’t exactly the brightest of people, nor the easiest to irk away with a stumble of the sentence. He’s easily impressed, indignant, clingy, and _loud_ , Schlatt scowls as he tugs down at the lapel of his suit, _very loud_.

He delegates with himself in the mirror as he fixes his tie before an idle hand reaches for the exquisite and unopened bottle settled in gross contrast with the chipped wooden table. His hand jerks back as if he’d touched the surface of a hotplate.

No. What was he thinking?

That pretty little bottle and its mysterious contents cost him a hefty quarter-million. The decanter itself took over a hundred hours in total to fashion, and the tasteful accents hugging the clear crystal vessel were made of exhaustively refined platinum.

He was supposed to open it after he’d been elected President, but a plethora of dissatisfying factors restrained him into a begrudging resignation, perhaps the crux of which was the fact that he didn’t really _win_ the election, per sé. No, the victory that was supposed to be the fruit of labor and sacrifice was instead handed to him on a silver platter, as most things in his life now were. The reward had been swapped with pity and cunning, cheating nature, one that he’d still have to repay with dinner and a movie. 

How painfully idiotic it was, though, that the only payment Quackity requested in return was a date. How quickly did he relinquish his leverage over Schlatt so blatantly, practically thrown onto his knees. It was pathetic, he’d usually think to himself, but this direct ticket to the presidency was one he’d curse himself forever if he refused. He’d much less think that it was also rather difficult to refuse those pleading, dark eyes, or the way his long face scrunched into a ginger smile whenever he attempted to wedge a joke between the sentences of his serious proposition.

He’d much rather think it the former, though.

Actually, his brain rather elected not to think much at all for the next half-hour or so, mind only purchasing clarity at the sickening knock at his humble, temporary home (a cabin Dream let him live in until he could find or construct a house).

The swing of a spruce door revealed the lanky silhouette of Quackity, who wore a dress shirt, a black tie, neatly-pressed pants and worn loafers. He looked like a fucking Mormon, save for the shades hanging from the dip of his collar.

“Schlatt!” Quackity makes a sound similar to his namesake. In his hands clutched a brandless bottle of what looked to be rosé wine. He shoved it into the ram’s arms rather sheepishly himself, “I don’t really drink, but you seem like the fancy typ’a guy, and I-'' He clears his throat, “Well, I just- Yeah.”

“Evening, Quackity,” He hummed in reply, standing tall and “fancy” in contrast to the dingy door frame.

“Jesus, you live like this?” The visitor nervously guffawed, leaning to the side to piece together whatever peeks of the interior he could get. “I mean, no offense, _Mister President_ , I just thought you were fucking loaded.”

_I’m worth more than this entire country combined and tripled_ , He would’ve scoffed to anyone else with the sheer nerve to speak to him with such blatant mockery. Outwardly, though, his gaze relaxes to pair with a sly smirk. 

“What? Having second thoughts?”

“Fuck you, Schlatt,” He laughed nervously.

Silence. They could hear the dust settling.

“Already?"

And the evening went on as such, each verbal spar sparked ending with Quackity backing himself into the proverbial corner, subtly nudged there by his President’s charismatic and calculatedly positioned questions. Schlatt was almost fond of how the other would scramble for any retort, clever or nonsensical. How he fidgeted under the dinner table but sat tall and proud regardless, how he turned his idiocy into his most dazzling charm.

“Do you want some cologne?” He waved the colored liquid in Schlatt’s face from across the table. Schlatt shakes his head. Quackity opens and downs the bottle.

“Wait,” Schlatt bristles, “You don’t drink cologne,”

“No! No!” Quackity squawks, “I meant detergent, babe, it’s detergent.”

Both of them relax on cue of Schlatt’s quiet, “Okay.” This is, of course, until he jolts back up again, “Wait, you don’t drink—“

_Detergent,_ he’d said, drowned out by Quackity’s shrill laughter. It deafened him. It consumed his mind.

They find themselves along the prime path when the restaurant closes; Quackity flaunts his bilingualism in hopes to impress who he thought was a very intelligent man that only spoke English, Schlatt willfully swallows his pride and pretends he doesn’t know a lick of Spanish by staying completely silent.

“—So, if you add _-pito_ to the end of any word, it becomes ‘my little something’, like if I said—“ He pauses— “Uh, if I said,” His words stumble, he comes to a halt.

Oh, the restraint it took Schlatt to not blurt two words, _entiendo Español_ , lips clamping down into a curt smile. This seems to annoy the shit out of Quackity.

“God, do you even talk, Schlatt?” Quackity groaned, footsteps seeming deafening in the wordlessness between them. He gives Schlatt an anxious huff, fidgeting with his tie.

Schlatt says nothing, relaxed gaze settling on nothing in particular. Quackity stops, and so does Schlatt immediately after, turning to face his subordinate— His date. Quackity scoffs impatiently, taking the president’s horns in his hands and tugging him into a kiss.

“ _Fuck_! Fuck, no, I’m sorry, I got frustrated,” There was something about the urgency that somehow rendered Schlatt speechless, even though he’d barely talked all evening.

But Quackity was still talking.

“—Schlatt? Schlatt, can you look- I’m sorry, I was impatient, and—“ Schlatt grabs his shoulders, lips crashing together. They melt into each other for a few seconds, pulling back into a cloud of hot, bated breaths.

“Do you ever shut up, Quackity?”


	2. A Peaceful Coexistence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Schlatt and Quackity get situated in the White House.

Moving in was the least of Schlatt’s concerns.

Schlatt practically came to L’Manberg to win it and nothing less than that. He posed himself as an endorser, charismatic and charming; an enigma. He’d then start his own independent party, having established himself in good spirits and a stellar reputation. Yes, his plan seemed to had gone awry when people voted for the opposing party regardless, but that’s exactly what landed him here, carrying his two cardboard boxes of belongings in front of the White House that Quackity had practically won for him.

Schlatt wouldn’t lie; it wasn’t the Ritz. The building was an awkward, chunky shape that folded in a right-angle that made it look like an “L” from an aerial view. The materials used to build the exterior were wildly inconsistent— Starting with a base of stone bricks, quartz highlighting the entrance and window distastefully. It worked up into thin rows of polished andesite, and then blackstone, and then roof. 

That horrid roof. 

It was a haphazard combination of various types of wooden planks, cobblestone, netherrack, crafting tables, furnaces, and fucking dirt. 

Dirt? Seriously?

Schlatt was in utter disbelief that this scaled-up cuckshed of a building was going to be his home indefinitely, and that it was on display for the whole country as it sat grotesquely behind the Manberg podium. He was waiting for the building to spontaneously crumble, Quackity leaping out and guffawing about it just being a social experiment, or a prank, or whatever. He cringed at the sight of the squalid structure, until he felt an arm loop around his sheepishly.

Schlatt moving in was all of Quackity’s concerns.

Quackity worked with the former administration of Wilbur and Tommy to create the White House as a symbol for peace and democracy. It would be their center for coordination, a means to ensure a peaceful transfer of power. It also used to be where the first cabinet of L’Manberg held their most momentous meetings.

It was a building frantically and eagerly erected in the epicenter of history, bricks practically flying into shape under the hands of presidents, soldiers, fighters and dreamers for freedom and acceptance. It was the most beautiful building Quackity had ever made, and he was so adamant of that until he saw the way Schlatt looked at it— as if it had wronged him in some way. Quackity then found himself examining it under the lens of an outsider like Schlatt, and the ugly asymmetry and wild inconsistency finally seemed to develop like the clarity of a polaroid photo. Suddenly, the history of the building seemed like an excuse to him. Wilbur and Tommy were now rebels, and he was the new cabinet.

He takes Schlatt’s arm sheepishly, offering his explanations regarding the unsightly structure. His tone was almost apologetic when he talked about how they ran out of materials for the roof, since the nation was so young and small; since effort and scarce resources were being diverted to more important facets.

Quackity leads him inside with haste, letting go to flit about the interior frantically. He quickly un-clutters tables and fixes askew trinkets, urging Schlatt to make himself at home in an absentminded and nervous babble. The White House actually served as Quackity’s de facto home for a while, when Tommy, Tubbo, and Wilbur made their own houses elsewhere.

Schlatt travels upstairs to deposit the only two things he had unpacked, a toothbrush and a familiar crystalline-clear bottle, in the bathroom and bedroom respectively. He suddenly finds himself without much purpose.

Both he and Quackity had declared their day off to move into the White House, but Schlatt was practically done unpacking as his two cardboard boxes filled with papers and clothing settled to collect dust in some corner. Quackity didn’t even need the day to move in— He didn’t need to move in, period. He was just there to assist Schlatt into essentially easing himself into his life.

Schlatt picks up the remote for the TV parallel to the bed, greeted by an episode of Law and Order: SVU on cable. He makes himself comfortable by the edge of the foot of the bed before Quackity walks in.

“You’re done packing already?”

“Mm,” He nods, patting the sheet beside him as an invitation.

Quackity forgets what he was supposed to say, instead opting to accept as he sat down, leaning into the other.

For a few minutes, the sound of TV detectives rambling on about child murderers and forensic science is all that fills the silence.

“Where’d you put your office clothes?” Quackity finally remembers.

“I’m having a new line tailored for my presidency. They’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

Quackity nods, half his face pressed against the quality fabric of Schlatt’s current suit jacket. He likes the crisp scent.

“I got a couple for you, too. I noticed the suit you wore to the election was faded,” Schlatt adds. “I mean, I wanted ‘em to be a surprise and all, but I’m thinking they might be too tight, now.”

“You didn’t have to do that, asshole,” is what Quackity would’ve said, had he not just remembered this was the man he kissed under a starry sky, and was now suddenly living with him. A living, walking, and waking dream guy. Instead, he opts for a quiet, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” The ram’s tone is restrained.

Minutes into the show, Ice-T drones on about substance addiction while the camera does a dolly zoom that gives both presidents vertigo. Quackity shuts off the TV with one flick of the remote, and they shift in the silence.

Schlatt wipes his brow with a handkerchief. Quackity scratches the hair under his beanie. They shift in the silence. Schlatt props his elbow on his knees, gaze falling. They shift in the silence. Quackity clears his throat. The silence is broken.

“Schlatt?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you tell me you love me?”

Schlatt’s eyes drift downward in thought, hearing Quackity’s request. He stares hard at his raven dress shoes, still on despite their alluringly casual setting. His eyes fixate on the broguing that lined the tips tastefully, and the impeccable serrations on edges of the leather. Intricate and expensive, just the way he liked it.

In other words, he was trying to avoid answering. Nevertheless, he obliges in a short, quiet exhale.

”I love you,” He grunts. 

_ I love you and the funny things you do to my head,  _ he wants to continue.  _ The things, that I can’t even put a finger on, that make me think about stuff I never thought about before. The way you fretted so much on our date makes me crave smaller, something more domestic with you. I’ve started thinkin’ that one day, I might even consider entertaining the thought of just being a humble citizen of this country, working an honest job, and coming home to you like this.  _

_ You’re throwing me off everything I’ve planned.  _

_ You and your smile make the possibility of leaving, the one thing I’ve been trying to avoid, so real.  _

Schlatt chuckles breathily. Quackity smiles cluelessly.

_ You motherfucker.  _

_ I hate you. I hate you, I hate you I hate you I— _

”I love you,” He exhales, declares, tender and teeming with an emotion that sweetens the air in its release. 

Later that night, Quackity sleeps in a warmth that nothing else will ever be able to provide him.


	3. Come Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected encounter gives rise to either the best or worst decision of Schlatt’s life.

Months had passed since Schlatt’s term began, and seldom was the President outside the walls of Manberg. Much less seldom, however, that he’d be awake at this ungodly hour, and not seldom at all that he carried a bottle of Jack Daniel’s with him. He gripped it tightly by the neck, bringing the rim to his parted lips as he lets the warmth trickle down inside him.

It was a common misconception that the alcohol is what would make Schlatt angry. In reality, alcohol made him fickle. Inebriated, he was quick to be overwhelmed, and being the President was a constant barrage of stress that would push him off the edge, that would submerge him in the cool rapids below the veil of his consciousness in order to cope.

Whenever he’d resurface, however, he’d find bruises on Quackity. Hidden behind pulled sleeves, a curtain of hair, or a refusal to turn a certain way towards Schlatt, he’d always find bruises. They were their most severe on the younger’s heart, damaged enough to create excuses that cut blind through all rationality: He was stressed from work, he was tired, he’s hurting deep down, I didn’t know when to quit, I pushed him, it’s my fault— I’m annoying, I’m too loud. He doesn’t deserve someone like me.

He doesn’t deserve someone like me.

God, Schlatt’s guilt tore him apart. Its cold, sharp nails dug into his heart, and yanked in opposite directions, tugs toward pride and love, which always stood polar to each other. Opposing. The aftermath always left his heart a mangled mess of tendons, sinews, and strings of muscle that bled profusely and overflowed within his chest, pushed down only by the sensation of whiskey sliding down his throat. 

This was his little experiment— He’d drink during the night, when Quackity was fast asleep, where there was barely any stimuli to overwhelm him. A place where he could at last slow down and marvel at the life he was living. He was at the top of the world, with the man he loved and the country he ruled. He was also on the forest floor, lying back-down as he stared at the rustling leaves, at the stars that would disappear and appear and then disappear again into the silhouettes of clouds. The dampness of the leaves under him, the smell of dew that mixed with alcohol that was almost intoxicating in its own right.

Schlatt shuts his burning eyes, holding the near-empty bottle close. He could possibly bring Quackity along for a night like this, if he’d learn to be a bit more quiet. Alas, Quackity’s love language was rooted heavily in his words. He talked constantly and loudly because he refused to be at peace with his own thoughts— Schlatt could tell, because he’d desperately try to fill the silence during their dates, from the first to the latest. And all Schlatt would do is stare with that loving, half-lidded gaze and a smile he never knew he could smile, because Quackity was so adorable and Schlatt was obsessed with him in the best way possible.

His left arm stretches over the grass to his side, he frowns at the empty space. The same way a conductor’s world seemed empty without music playing, so did Schlatt feel when he was apart from his partner.

He’d even go so far as to say that he was alone, but that wasn’t true.

Someone— A familiar voice rings broken in the distance, growing closer and closer.

_My L’Manberg,_

Schlatt sits up.

_My L’Manberg._

Wilbur?

“ _My L’Manberg,_

“My—“ The voice falters, and stops. Wilbur approaches the clearing, the underbrush seems to shrink as it parted, cringing in the wake of the exile’s cold aura. Tired eyes squint. “Schlatt?”

Wilbur’s voice is softer, not as crazed as it is around the other Pogtopians. He sounds gentle and calm, hollowed, almost an echo of the man Schlatt knew from what felt like a lifetime ago. When things were simpler, and the majority of their stress came from inconsequential games and heated banter. He aches for a time, a moment, a condition where alcohol only tasted good when he was with friends. For a moment, he entertains the thought that could pretend. 

“Here,” Schlatt slings his arm up, holding the bottle towards Wilbur. “Drink up, pretty-boy, no one can see us from here.”

Wilbur’s nose crinkles at the scent, but he takes the drink, nevertheless. Schlatt can’t help but think that Wilbur, too, was victim to gross misconception. Wilbur wasn’t insane with greed, or vengeance— not when Schlatt saw him in this state, anyway. The way Wilbur silently lets the warm liquid slide down his throat, how his glassy eyes seemed to stare past Schlatt, and the utter lack of tone his words carried made the ram realize something: He was hollowed, a husk.

And husks could be filled— It just so happened that the Pogtopians filled Wilbur to the brim with bloodlust; disguised under a gilded veil of righteous hate. 

“Schlatt, why are you being so calm?” 

“I don’t know, why are you?”

Around his de facto rebellion, Wilbur rambled on and on about skinning Schlatt and keeping his horns as trophies, goaded on by the cheers of his brother and the anarchist. Alone with Schlatt, the thought of striking him didn’t even cross his mind. In fact, he seems to wear an absentminded smile to pair the distant look in his eyes.

He was so blank, so empty and impressionable. A twinge of pity pulls at Schlatt’s heart— He knew Wilbur when he was a mischievous soul who could ramble about hot pockets for fifteen minutes, pitch jumping along with his hands to emphasize his passion. He had such a sweet laugh that made his nose crinkle up when Schlatt told his half-jokes, and a colorful vocabulary that made itself known when said jokes toed the line of flirtatious half-desires. The days when the concept of a country wasn’t even a sliver of thought in his mind. Well, he knew Wilbur when Wilbur had a mind. 

“Wil, sit down, won’t you?”

“Okay,” He mumbles, gingerly placing himself by Schlatt. He sinks, crossing his legs, looking forward.

Schlatt’s chest hurts. “Come closer.”

Wilbur follows, scooting closer until their shoulders are pressed together. Dead eyes still stare into the dark of the trees ahead.

Schlatt’s hand moves to Wilbur’s cheek, gently turning him until they stare at each other; warm, alcohol-tinged breaths ghosting cold skin. 

Perhaps it was a desire for closure that Schlatt felt when he pressed his lips on the brunet’s hesitantly. When Wilbur’s lips moved in response, it was everything he thought it would be: The gentleness, the chastity— But the emptiness. Oh, the emptiness. When Schlatt’s curiosity had been satiated, the heat seemed to fade from the moment. On the other end, Wilbur only kissed back because he was being kissed.

_“God, do you even talk, Schlatt?” Quackity groaned, footsteps seeming deafening in the wordlessness between them. He gives Schlatt an anxious huff, fidgeting with his tie._

They both pull back, the air separates them coldly.

“I have to go,” Schlatt grunts, cold demeanor flooding back in vallies vulnerability previously carved. He picks up the bottle, and sprints away.

Wilbur stills, head frozen in the direction Schlatt ran off to. He takes in a breath.

_“I heard there was a special place, where men could go emancipate...”_

“...Marry me.”

“What?”

“Marry me,” Schlatt repeats. He’s on his knees beside their bed, panting heavily— Ugh, _loudly_.

Quackity rolls over and squints at the clock. “It’s 4:13 am, asshole.”

“So, what?” He was quick to retort, “You’ll say yes by day but no at night? You only love me on the job, Quackity? Because, my god, I just can’t seem to stop lo—“

“I didn’t say no,” Quackity protests in a moan, killing Schlatt’s rising monologue.

A minute of silence. Quackity pulls the blanket closer to himself, grumbling. Schlatt gives that _stare_.

“So, that’s a yes?”

“Fuck you, a—“ He rolls over to face Schlatt, only to be greeted by a simple, golden band held between shaky fingers. A small “oh,” escapes his lips. Rousing the slightest bit, only now does he pick up the urgency in Schlatt’s words, the way he’s pinching the gold ring so hard that his fingertips are turning white. He groans, giving his hand over to him. Schlatt gladly takes it, pressing a kiss onto his knuckles. He warms slightly to the scratch of stubble against his skin.

A moment passes. Quackity’s fingers twitch expectantly.

“Wrong hand, princess,” Schlatt croons, bemused.

“I’ll shove it up your ass if you don’t let me sleep,” He slurs, turning back around.


End file.
